


VenturianTale Tumblr Prompts

by EnderAmethyst



Category: VenturianTale Characters (Web Series)
Genre: (implied) - Freeform, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Death, Expect lots of sadness and angst, F/F, Feel free to request in the comments or on my tumblr @maddiefriendlovesbilly, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, I WILL cry with you, I'll be more likely to see it on tumblr though, Johnny Ghost dies, Johnny Ghost is a Ghost, Johnny Ghost is my son, M/M, Multi, No Smut, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Schmoop, Unhappy Ending, back to normal tags, because that what people mostly ask for lmao, not all are teen and up but that's the general rating, so therefore I must torture him, theres schmoop too though, you will cry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:40:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22143484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnderAmethyst/pseuds/EnderAmethyst
Summary: This is a collection of the prompts people request on my Tumblr. I'll update it as I make more - most are one-shots, but there may be multi-parters in the future.
Relationships: Fred Spooker/Chris "Colon" Ghostie, Johnny Ghost/Johnny Toast, Johnny Ghost/Johnny Toast/Fred Spooker/Chris "Colon" Ghostie
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	1. Three Times Ghost Stole His Teammates’ Clothing and One Time They Stole His Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rating: PG, SFW
> 
> Ship: Poly P.I.E. (Ghost/Toast/Spooker/Colon)
> 
> Warnings: Light angst, self-deprecating thoughts, mentions of feelings of isolation and loneliness (Tell me if I missed anything!)
> 
> Summary: Ghost ‘accidentally’ forgets to return Colon’s hoodie after he leaves it at his apartment - things escalate from there.
> 
> Word Count: 3,058

**1.**

It all starts, as most things do, innocuous as can be. A hoodie left at an apartment by accident.

Ghost sighs, picking up the offending garb, much too large to possibly belong to him. Pinching the soft fabric between his fingers, he glances around his room cautiously - though, this was quite unnecessary; he’s the only one in his small, cramped apartment at the moment, let alone his bedroom - and unsurreptitiously brings the article to his face, breathing in the familiar smell of his friend. He allows himself one, just one, moment of vulnerability, in which he imagines a warm embrace, surrounded by this scent.

As soon as the moment is over though, he tosses it over his shoulder, onto his bed, where it forms a small navy lump at the foot. He promises himself he’ll return it the next time he sees Colon, but a small voice in the back of his mind tells him he already knows he won’t. He tells the voice to mind its own business, and to fuck off.

It sits there for about a week or so when the opportunity to return it arises. He tells himself he’ll return it another time - _Now would be inconvenient, we’re going on a hunt; what would he do with it until after the investigation?_ \- and ignores the voice, which sounds just a bit too smug for his taste, when it says, ‘ _You know he could just put it on, right? It’s a hoodie, it’s meant to be worn._ ’

Nonetheless, when he meets up with the rest of P.I.E. for their mission, the hoodie is still sitting in a lump on his bed, and he conveniently forgets to mention its presence in his apartment. The voice mocks him relentlessly the entire investigation and all the way home.

It sits there for so long that eventually he actually folds it and puts it in his shirt drawer - “For safekeeping,” he mutters to no one, because the nagging voice only replies casually, ‘ _Of course, of course._ ’ - and a month has passed when, without looking, he grabs the hoodie ( _“Jeez why is this so baggy,”_ he’d wondered at the time, but didn’t think too much of it.), shrugs it on and is already out the door, down the street, and has his normal jacket pulled over it by the time he realizes.

But he’s already late and can’t afford to go back and change, so he just zips up his own jacket a little further than normal and keeps moving - pretends there aren’t a good few inches of navy fabric peeking out from the bottom.

Nobody mentions the garment beneath his jacket, that is, until he miscalculates how much it affects his walking, and ends up sprawled lamely across the ground, having tumbled down a flight of stairs. Grumbling, unharmed save for his pride, he hops up - and nearly falls again doing so, thank god for Toast’s quick reflexes. _Damn hoodie._ Toast’s eyes carefully scan their surroundings, and when he doesn’t find the source of his tumble, they turn to him, scrutinizing. In an effort to save himself from the mortification he probably deserves, Ghost fumbles for something to distract the three concerned pairs of eyes watching him. “J-Jesus Toast, did you just jump down that flight of stairs?!”

Somehow, by the will of God himself, Ghost can only assume, this actually works. “Yeah wait,” Spooker interjects, “That was super dangerous! What would we have done if you’d both ended up incapacitated! Be more careful - and I’m talking to both of you here!” Colon nods in agreement, and Ghost only feels a little guilty at shifting the blame when he glances at him and imagines what might’ve happened if he hadn’t.

Ghost doesn’t make that mistake twice - mostly because he never puts it back in the drawer again, partially in fear and partially because, well, that doesn’t mean that he stopped wearing it. To be clear, he only wears it in the privacy of his room - and yes, maybe he’s slept in it once or twice, imagining being tucked safely into one or more of his friends’ arms, but that’s normal, and everyone does it, _shut up._

It doesn’t even really smell like Colon anymore - and now he sounds like a stalker, Jesus Christ - but it’s more about the idea of it at this point anyway, so whatever.

Gradually, very gradually, Ghost finds himself wondering what type of clothes Toast and Spooker wear: Are they soft and worn like Colon’s? He’s felt Toast’s before, having brushed against him quite a bit during their long friendship - but how would it feel to wear? Would it feel crisp and silky, ironed meticulously until not a crinkle was seen? What about Spooker? He’s seen him in everything from his work attire to oversized, comfy-looking sweaters of various shades - all of which he’s not completely sure how he walks in, due to his own experience with Colon’s. He wants to try them on nonetheless.

**2.**

He’s walking with Spooker one day when thunder rumbles overhead, a belated warning, because just as it does the sky unleashes sheet after sheet of rain. They’re both soaked within seconds and are already bolting back the way they came - towards Spooker’s home. Stumbling up the steps, they practically break down the door getting in and slam it soundly shut behind them once inside. The resounding click of the door’s lock seal’s his fate, though he doesn’t know it quite yet. After Spooker catches his breath, he runs to grab a couple towels and throws one at Ghost, who catches it and starts drying his hair.

“Stay right there, I’m gonna go grab us a change of clothes,” Spooker says with a genuine smile lighting up his face, blissfully unaware of Ghost’s mind shortcircuiting. Ghost nods dumbly and tries to let neither his excitement nor his dread show. Though, all hopes of nonchalance fly out the window when a freshly changed Spooker walks out with an extremely soft-looking oversized grey sweater. And while he might not admit it out loud, Ghost is very aware that he’s several inches shorter than Spooker, and fear tinges his thoughts knowing that the sweater he’s holding is already purposefully large on him, let alone Ghost. While he’s busy warring with himself over whether he’d be completely swamped in the thing, and if he’d actually mind it, Spooker chirps, “I’ve seen you staring at my sweaters when I wear them, so I thought you might like to try one on, is this one alright?”

Heat rises to his cheeks, and Ghost thinks that maybe this is God’s revenge for sparing him the other time, because Spooker doesn’t even need an answer, just hands over the sweater - and damn, it _is_ as soft as it looks - and Ghost feels his whole face burning now; he must be as red as a tomato. Spooker points him towards the bathroom, and he doesn’t even bother arguing, just takes the heap of cloth to the restroom and changes in silence.

His cheeks are still very warm when he walks out, arms crossed, and Spooker’s poorly concealed laughter might just be the death of him. Or Spooker, depending on how long he plans to stare at him like he’s something on display.

“I-” Spooker starts, but has to pause to collect himself before continuing, “I tried to find one that’s smaller on me so it would fit you better, but this-” and before Ghost can even so much as blink, a bright flash lights up the room and Ghost flinches, before realizing what just transpired.

“Hey, wait–! Delete that now!” he shouts, panic edging its way into his tone, “Please don’t show Toast that, I’ll never hear the end of it-” and now Spooker’s holding his phone out of his reach, which is so unfair, like honestly, using his height against him? Rude. Oh and now he’s put it on a high shelf, and Ghost doesn’t know where any step ladders are because this isn’t his house, and shit, his face is going red again - God, he’s not tearing up over this, _he isn’t_.

He’s overwhelmed, and Spooker must see it - and Goddamnit why can’t he just keep all this shit inside, like a _normal_ person - because he reaches for his hands, grounding him. “Ghost? Johnny? Hey, c’mon take a deep breath, match my breathing, okay?” Once he’s got his attention, he says, “Alright, there you go, good job.” He doesn’t let go of Ghost’s hands, even after the black at edges of his vision recedes completely, even when his breathing steadies, even though Ghost is objectively fine now. He just asks, “Are you alright?” in probably the softest voice that’s been directed at him, ever. He almost breaks down from it. Spooker offers to delete the photo if it really bothers him that much, but Ghost just shrugs, unable to look him in the eye as he mumbles, “It’s whatever.”

In the end, Spooker told him to keep the sweater - “It’s too small for me anyways,” he’d said, though it clearly wasn’t - and if Ghost’s being honest, he didn’t put much of a fight about it. He stays a couple hours until the rain passes, then heads home, soggy clothes in his arms.

Ghost’s hands won’t stop tingling where Spooker held them.

**3.**

Toast has always been openly caring, especially towards Ghost, so he’s honestly so used to Toast’s kindness that he almost doesn’t even realize what’s happening when Toast just hands him one of his white button-ups one day at the base. He just says - and looking back, what a _humiliating_ thing to say - “Oh, thanks.” and unbuckles his satchel, but freezes before putting it in, finally looking at what he’s been handed. “…Toast?” he mutters after a few seconds, “Why have you just handed me a shirt?”

Silence rings between the two of them, until Toast chimes, “Well, specifically, it’s my shirt,” like that answers any questions Ghost might have.

“Okay then.” He has to pause to convince himself that, no, neither seppuku nor murder are in these days. “Why have you handed me ‘ _specifically, your shirt_ ’?”

Toast only sighs as if the answer is obvious and Ghost can only stare back incredulously, until finally Toast shakes his head exasperatedly - though Ghost can’t fathom _what_ he’s so exasperated at - and walks away.

“W-wait, Toast you didn’t answer me! What am I supposed to do with this?!”

“Keep it!” He calls back, sounding truly and utterly ‘over-it’, but Ghost can hear the smile in his tone.

Glancing down at the shirt, he smoothes it between his thumb and index finger, and thinks about how this hole he’s dug himself is looking about the right depth to be a grave.

Whatever the case is, he adds it to his growing collection of _Garments-That-Are-Not-His_ sat upon his dresser, the ones he only wears at home, in the privacy of his room, where nobody but himself and the nagging voice in the back of his mind can judge him for thinking it would be nice to do be able to walk around like this all the time: absolutely drenched in three different types of clothing, completely clashing and maybe a little too warm, but with a glowing feeling somewhere near his heart.

He doesn’t entertain the idea of actually getting what he really wants - the comfort of the people he loves the most swaddling him in something like affection, or the feeling of knowing they feel the same way, home in a person - in people, to be accurate. He’s not selfish enough to think he deserves that from one person, let alone three.

He finally has to wash them all when he cries himself to sleep wrapped up in them, and ends up crying again on the cold tile floor the next day when they all smell like lavender soap instead of the faint scents of fresh cotton, citrus, and something floral like roses.

**+1**

He probably comes in just a little too downcast to be normal - usually, there’s the implication of aggression when he walks, an unsaid threat, but today, he just doesn’t have the energy - his shoulders sag, and the circles under his eyes are darker than normal too; at least, that’s what his mirror told him when he looked into it that morning. That is, before he turned around and left without even trying to fix his bedhead. Not that you can actually tell what’s bedhead and what isn’t with him, ha.

Spooker spots him and, most literally - Seriously, was that valuable? He hopes not, what with the loud shattering sound - drops what he’s doing and rushes over. It hurts, being coddled, cared for like this, and somewhere deep in his chest, deeper than should be possible really, something broken aches and lurches. A loneliness he’s always felt settles deeper into his bones, even as Spooker asks him question after question - “Are you okay?” “What happened?” “Guys? Hey guys?! He’s not answering me!”

“Sorry…” he mumbles, placing his head on the thin shoulder in front of him, “Didn’t sleep well. Just–just tired.”

It’s an obvious lie (for many reasons really; he’s always tired for one, and misses entire nights of sleep often, and has never let his guard down like this before) but Spooker doesn’t call him out on it, though Ghost thinks he probably should.

Nevertheless, the other two come in a few seconds later, and are already checking him over to see where he’s hurt. Ghost is still too tired to protest, which seems to worry them even more. He ponders how he got so lucky, yet not, to have such good friends. He picks up his head finally, taking in the sight of his teammates; Toast’s brow is furrowed, and Spooker and Colon are looking at him with heavy concern weighing on their faces - along with something else, something warmer and deeper, that he can’t quite name. It hurts to look any longer, so he doesn’t, casts his eyes downward and studies the crocheted lines of warm grey yarn making up Spooker’s oversized sweater. He fiddles anxiously with the sleeves’ cuffs, which have fallen over his hands, engulfing them completely. They’re still all standing in the entrance of the base, and there are a lot of very big, very unobstructed windows making up the front of the building - seemingly noticing this, the other three pull him further inside, into the kitchenette they have stocked for all-nighters. Pulling a chair out, they sit him at the small round table crammed half-successfully into the already tiny space, loud squeaking and clacking following suit as they pull over seats for themselves as well, all huddled up to him. He feels a bit trapped, truth be told, but it’s not exactly unpleasant, somehow - like a barrier or shield between him and the outside world, if he had to describe it.

Spooker scoops up his hands and cradles them in his own, and the other two each lay a hand atop one of his. Ghost doesn’t really understand what’s happening, honestly, but doesn’t ask - not because he’s scared that his voice will come out rough with emotion or anything, he’s just being strategic here - simply waits for one of them to explain as his eyes dart from face to face with unspoken questions.

It takes a moment, but finally Colon says softly, “You know you can tell us if something’s happening, right?” _Wrong,_ Ghost thinks, but doesn’t dare say, _Not this time._

Because, really, how do you tell your closest confidants that you can’t stop thinking about what it would be like to kiss them goodnight? That you want to stay wrapped up in their arms forever? That you wish you could spend the rest of your lives together, because, _fuck_ , you’re _in love_ with them okay? He’s been in love with his best friends for as far back as he can think, and he’ll never be able to truly deserve them.

And shit, he has a terrible poker face, because they’re all frowning now, damn it. Spooker glances at the other two, and they make eye contact before, without warning, he surges forward and pulls Ghost into a tight embrace (distantly, he notes that the smell of citrus is stronger than it was on the sweater) quickly followed by two more pairs of arms on either side, until he’s sat squarely in between three bear hugs, like a human cacoon, and maybe he’s just a little too warm, but he feels quite safe.

And if his eyes start to water, well, no one can see him past the canopy of bodies anyway, so you can’t prove anything.

“You know we love you, right Sir?”

“H-huh?” Ghost finally croaks.

“I mean,” Colon snorts good-naturedly, “I know you’re a bit oblivious sometimes, but really, we’ve handed over our clothes because you wanted them.”

Spooker shushes him, “Don’t be mean,” he giggles, “Look, we want you to know that we feel the same, but we didn’t want to say it until you we’re ready to hear it, okay?”

“But now seemed like the right time.”

His face is on fire, and he’s not sure if it’s from being caught red-handed, or if it has to do with the tears pricking at his eyes.

“…But, why?” It’s vague and choked, but they seem to get what he’s really asking.

“Because Sir, we like you just the way you are.”

“Yeah!” Spooker adds, “We wouldn’t have you any other way!” He can hear the smile in his voice, unusually gentle.

“Cliche much?” Ghost says, followed by a watery chuckle.

“Maybe,” Colon says, and Ghost feels him shrug, “but it’s true.”

He feels a very light kiss planted on the crown of his head, then another, then another, until he’s being peppered with kisses from all angles and at least Ghost knows why his face is beet red this time, and he giggles wetly because he’s wanted this for so long, and now it’s here and he can hardly believe it.

“So,” Ghost mumbles after the kisses have mostly subsided, “does this mean I get to steal your stuff all the time?”

There’s a collective sigh between the three of them, but before he can worry too much, Toast assures him, “Anytime sir, anytime.” and plants another kiss on his cheek.


	2. Behind You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rating: PG, SFW
> 
> Ship: None
> 
> Warnings: Horror-ish, implied character death (Tell me if you see something I missed!)
> 
> Summary: A lost Spooker tries to find his way out of a haunted location alone, when he hears an unknown voice on the radio say, “Behind You!”
> 
> Word Count: 631

Crap, Crap, Crap! Spooker thinks, along with a string of much less child-friendly exclamations. He skids around the corner, frantically searching for any sign of the others. He’ll take anything really - the bright blue of a beanie, a satchel as it swings out, a dapperly-attired figure in the distance. They were just here! I freaking hate ghosts, this sucks!

He searches until he’s sure he’s inspected the entire floor, and once he completes another tour, he loops back to the staircase he’d found while wandering. The stairs going up have long since crumbled with age, remains scattered across the stairs below where they used to be, because of course they are.

He sighs, and steps cautiously over the rubble as he makes his way downward; shines his flashlight ahead so he’s prepared if the ghost attacks. “Stupid ghost, getting mad and splitting us up,” he grumbles, “and stupid Ghost, getting it mad and getting us split up!” He kicks a fallen ceiling tile, watching it crumple in on itself and scatter throughout the hallway.

Well, no use crying over spilled milk, I’ll just have to find a way out of here; I’m sure that’s what they’re doing. He reaches for his walkie-talkie, trying a few different frequencies as he repeats, “This is Spooker - I seem to be in a basement level of some sort, does anybody copy? Over.” He switches frequencies a few more times without success, so he clips it back on his belt, moving the knob every so often and listening for a voice among the static.

He continues on, eyes scanning for anything out of the ordinary that could lead him outside. His flashlight flickers. Well that’s never a good sign.

“Be–chhhkkkk–nd y–ou,” crackles the radio. Spooker doesn’t stop, but stays on the frequency, and listens a little more intently. “Behind…” it repeats, breaking off into white noise, incomprehensible. He glances back; nothing seems to be there, but Spooker has learned the hard way that just because you can’t sense it, doesn’t mean it’s not a threat - in fact, that usually means it’s more dangerous. “Behind, Behind, Behi–hind you! He’s Beh-” The voice cuts out, and Spooker speeds up. He doesn’t look back again - he knows already that nothing will be there, it’s something in the shadows, something invisible to human eyes. “Hi-hi-hi-hi-hind–Behind you! He’s c-c–com-” Spooker searches for a place to hide, to defend, and reaching an open room, he bolts inside, slamming it closed and pointing his pistol at it.

“Behind you. Behind you. Behind you. He’s here.” Spooker whips around, aiming his pistol at the grotesquely-shaped figure facing the wall.

“He’s here, He’s here - look behind you.” the voice on the radio says, eerily crisp and unimpeded. Spooker shines his light on the figure, but it remains silhouetted, a black void. The shadow in front of him shifts, attention gained. “Look what we brought you; a man! a man!”

Spooker backs away from the figure, reaching for the doorknob. Shit, what have I done?!

“Hurry! Hurry! He’s getting away!” The silhouette moves again, black form distorting and contorting bizarrely, before expanding, coating the walls in a thick, black slime. An arm-like from reaches out from the ooze, and Spooker twists and stumbles back, swinging wildly. He hits the wall.

“In front of you,” says the voice on the radio, frighteningly clear; Spooker looks up at the center of the room. Slime drips down off his shoulders, crawls down his arms. He watches the figure - no longer a silhouette, but something fleshy and pink, and he wonders distantly if the slime is something like skin - take a step toward him.

“You…” The meaty figure growls, displaying a perfect lineup of sharp, white teeth.

Spooker swallows past the lump in his throat; there’s nowhere left to run.


	3. The Asylum Case

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rating: PG-13, SFW
> 
> Ship: Poly P.I.E. (Ghost/Toast/Spooker/Colon)
> 
> Warnings: Lots of angst, Major Character Death, Descriptions of intense pain, Sadness >:3 (Tell me if I missed anything!)
> 
> Summary: Ghost recounts exactly how he got into his current predicament, which is dying.
> 
> Word Count: 1,829

They’re approximately 30 minutes into the investigation when everything, in Ghost’s humble opinion, goes to shit. “But every P.I.E. investigation goes to shit!” you say. Yes, that is, in fact, true, but Ghost has decided that bleeding out on the floor - very slowly, might he add, which is decidedly _not fun_ \- constitutes the creation of a new category of “gone to shit”. “But,” you say, “Why not just respawn?” and again, usually, Ghost would do just that - but there’s just one issue; he can’t. Let’s rewind.

They entered the decrepit asylum, joking and teasing and generally enjoying each other’s company - unsuspecting of the horrors yet to come. Once they were inside, the ghost wasted no time in introducing itself; it screamed its sob-story from nowhere in particular, voice bouncing off the walls and echoing down each corridor, all lined with empty cells. Ghost thought he heard sobbing from the one beside him, and so, using the keys the caretaker - who had been the one to call them to investigate, and who looked about as old and decrepit as the asylum - had given him, unlocked the door and (ignoring the disapproving sigh from Toast, and the alarmed yelps from the other two) entered. A girl sat huddled in the corner, long, matted, black hair cascading over her small form, blocking her face. Her tattered white dress hung loosely, and one sleeve slid from her small trembling shoulder as he approached and knelt down. A familiar dread washed over Ghost as he gently asked, “K-Katrina?”

Abruptly, the girl stopped shaking, before giggling once, twice, and then, neck cracking violently, her head shot up and she stared into his eyes with a wide, manic smile. He edged away, wondering why the others hadn’t entered, hadn’t said anything, hadn’t even made a sound since he’d approached Katrina, but he couldn’t look back, not now, because when he stumbled to his feet, backing away, she followed, neck craning oddly to one side. “Katrina-” he started, pleading, “Kat, hey, it’s me, Johnny! Remember?” He fumbled for the door handle, careening into the hall when it opened. No one else was there.

“Yessssss,” Katrina hissed, drawling, “I remember youuuu…” but she didn’t slow her advance; instead, she just kept hurtling towards him. As he ducked beneath a wild swing of her claw, he glimpsed it - the small, red, rope-pattern lines wrapping around her neck, exposed by its unnatural angle - and choked back a sob. “God, Kat, I’m sorry - I’m so sorry!” he heard himself plead. She didn’t seem to hear him, only muttered, “Johnny, Johnny, I remember, yes I remember Johnny. Johnny!” and took another swing. He scrambled back, gritting his teeth when a razor nail clipped his shoulder, and Katrina’s crazed grin widened. Something inside Ghost twitched at the sight, but he pushed it down, he didn’t have time to panic. “Toast?” he called as he scrambled down the empty hallways, “Spook? Colon?!”

No one answered, and Ghost felt his heart sink.

He fumbled with the keyring, detached it from his belt loop - which proved to be much more difficult while his hands shook violently - and jammed a key into the first lock he came across, throwing open the cell door and slamming it behind him, locking it back.

The old door’s hinges creaked dangerously with the force of Katrina’s hands slamming against it, and Johnny could only pray they didn’t give out under the stress. Slowly, the banging subsided and, hand over heart, he sighed in relief. Pulling out his phone, he hit Toast’s contact, and pulled the phone to his ear, listening to it ring. It clicked, and Toast’s blurted in a near-shout, “Sir, where the fuck are you?!” in the background he heard a short hysterical laugh, and Ghost felt one of his own bubble out past the tightness in his chest and the burning in his shoulder. “Just getting chased by a murderous vision from the past - you know, the usual.”

“Are you injured?”

“She nicked me, but its nothing serious.”

“Don’t do anything dangerous,” Spooker said in the background, “A ghost said we can’t respawn here and we don’t want to chance them being right.”

“Where are you, Sir? We’ll come find you.”

“Er,” Ghost muttered, trying to recall where he was, “I’m in a locked cell right now, not sure what floor - I think it’s B-hall though, so first floor probably,” he paused, putting on a cheery, guide-like voice, “Just follow the sounds of screeching and growling, and you should see a crazy lady pacing outside the door,” he said peeking through the small, barred window. Katrina spotted him and slammed a palm against the door, snarling. “take a sharp turn there and - remember this step because it is crucial okay? - sock her right in the face.”

Toast barked out a sharp, brittle laugh, “We’ll do our best.”

“I’ll see you in a few, I’m gonna hang up now because I don’t want to attract too much attention - these ancient hinges don’t exactly appreciate the abuse we’re putting them through.”

“Alright Sir, be careful.”

And careful he was, but you can’t exactly count on ghosts to obey the laws of physics, or even manners, really, because out of the blue, there was the caretaker, and boy did he look smug. “What a lovely reunion between old friends,” he croaked, “It’s almost enough to warm my cold, dead heart!” then cackled wildly. When Ghost didn’t so much as blink in surprise, he sobered, snapping at him, “Why aren’t you surprised? Everything went perfectly, none of you suspected a thing!”

“Dude, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I hunt ghosts for a living; this plot-twist happens every other week.”

“Damn! Well, either way, you’re gonna die here, so I guess it doesn’t really matter. Dead men tell no tales and all that.”

“Again, hate to do this, but literally every case a ghost says something along the lines of “Ohohoho you’re gonna die anyway, so it doesn’t really matter!” and here I am, alive and only slightly harmed.” Another bang reverberated around the room, and Ghost shuffled uncomfortably but couldn’t look away from the immediate threat.

“Oh, uh, exactly how many cases have you done?”

“Dunno,” Ghost shoved his hands into his pockets, “I’ve been doing this since I was like, sixteen, and our schedule’s kinda all over the place because you can’t really predict when a ghost is gonna show up, but we get at least three to seven cases a week, and about half of them are real.” Another slam, followed by creaking and a final loud rattling sound.

“Huh, half, really?”

“Yeah, people are stupid.”

“Agreed. Speaking of stupid, you let your guard down.”

“Oh.” Things seemed to slow down, a sharp pain stabbing through his back. He looked down, watching three claw-like fingers withdraw from his chest, leaving three little holes all the way through. He collapsed, head falling to the side as he coughed wetly, tasting iron. Almost calmly, he watched as blood pooled around him, before glancing up to the doorway, where the door had been ripped open, and now teetered ominously on its hinges. Katrina loomed over him, blood coating her claws.

And that’s it, that’s how he got here. Seconds later, he hears someone shout his name, and he feels the caretaker’s presence vanish. Katrina glances back, but it doesn’t give her enough time to react before a bullet rips through her solid form, followed by another, then another. She screeches and stumbles back, blindly tripping over the lump of Ghost while trying to shield herself from the incoming bullets. He groans as she falls over him, kicking his wounds. The puddle beneath him ripples, blood traveling in tiny rivers through the imperfections in the concrete floor. Absently, Ghost notes that his sight has gone fuzzy at the edges, and black static is creeping in. Katrina lets out one last screech before disappearing, and as soon as she’s gone Toast, Spooker, and Colon all rush to his side. He smiles weakly as Colon pulls his head into his lap, eyes watery. The other two looked similarly panicked, and Ghost finds himself wheezing, “Hey, it’s really not that bad, okay? You guys can just carry me out of here and I can respawn.” Blood bubbles in his throat as he speaks, and he has to turn to the side to cough it up when it scratches at his throat.

The others glance at each other and Ghost frowns, confused. “What?”

“If we moved you now,” Spooker explains, chewing his lip, “you’d probably die of blood loss before we got outside. And I’m not a doctor but I’m pretty sure you have a punctured lung.”

Ghost’s brows furrow and he laughs sadly. “Sucks to be me I guess…” he ignores the liquid gathering in the back of his mouth, swallowing. “Anybody here magically know first aid?”

They all grimace, shaking their heads. “Ah, well, worth a shot,” he rasps. He feels a tear drip down, catching on his jaw. His chest burns; a hot-cold sensation that tears through him every time he breathes. He can’t focus his eyes anymore, but he looks at the blurry figures he knows are his closest companions - the loves of his life - and smiles, even as more tears follow and he chokes down a gasp of pain. Someone’s holding his face and speaking to him gently, and he can’t understand the words, but he thinks it might be Colon, so he looks up at him. At the same time as a pair of lips meet his temple, and then again and again, until he’s being peppered with kisses. He can feel the body under him shaking now, and through the white-hot burning and the growing ringing in his ears, he makes out stammered apologies and ‘I-love-you’s, and he feels it aching in his bones because it’s not their fault, he did this, and he wishes all the way down to his core that he could go back, that he could undo the pain he knows paints their faces, but he can’t - he’s going to die here, slowly, painfully. The ringing is piercing now and the black static has spread to cover most of his vision, and he thinks he might be screaming, or apologizing, saying goodbye, but he can’t hear anything over the ringing so it’s possible that when he tries to tell them “I love you too” it comes out garbled and incomprehensible. His throat is raw now so he must be screaming, and it’s all so loud until suddenly everything stops.

There’s no ringing, or panic, or crying, or pain. Just empty blackness and total silence. He can’t move, because there’s nowhere to go, there’s nothing here, there’s only void. That is, until the sound of a single raindrop, followed by another, then another, breaks the silence, and like waking up, Ghost blinks, and finds himself standing in front of a grave.


End file.
